


burials

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Liverpool F.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 14:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Jordan bends down to pick up a few Roma players, because it’s the right thing to do and because he knows the desolation dragging their limbs.





	burials

**Author's Note:**

> Rambling reflections across both legs of the Liverpool vs Roma semi-final.
> 
> Based on the word prompt:
> 
> Tell me I am a premature burial;   
> Tell me existing feels like being buried alive sometimes;  
> & it’s okay to feel that way;  
> \- George Abraham, from “The Olive Tree Speaks of Deforestation to my body”

Anfield is so loud around them.

 

Jordan squeezes Mo into a hug, burying his head in his curls, and he feels the rest of the squad crowd in around them, Ads’ sharp elbow in his ribs, Gini’s smile pressing against the sweaty skin of his neck. 

 

Five up and Jordan’s chest feels full with it, elation and fear all in one, and beyond it, Anfield, lit up and dissolved in red, full of song. 

 

He wonders if Istanbul felt like this, and the thought feels like blasphemy, like struggle and Steven Gerrard’s shadow in the armband on his bicep. This is something else. This is Sadio and Mo and Bobby dancing across the field. This is Loris halfway down the pitch, somehow effortlessly handsome in the sweat and lights. This is Virgil towering over everyone and the burning focus in Dejan’s eyes. This is Milly, yelling for them to keep their focus.

 

Klopp’s laughter on the sidelines.

 

This is theirs. This is joy. Stark enough that he feels buried in it, overwhelmed. And it’s not a bad place to be.

 

The songs grow louder. The flags wave higher.

 

*

 

Rome is too warm for April, the air heavy with the promise of distant thunder. 

 

The Stadio Olimpico is miles away from the Colosseum but a comparison seems apt, especially in the noble lines of De Rossi’s face, in the thousand faces in the stands above them, calling for their blood.

 

Roma are determined. Roma are hope. And hope, like free kicks, is a hard thing to defend.

 

Still, they seem to be doing alright at first. Liverpool are two up by halftime and Kloppo warns them of being complacent while fighting his own grin as Željko looks disapprovingly over his shoulder. 

 

And then Roma begins its own miracle. 

 

It’s overwhelming, to stand in the way of a resurrection. It’s all Jordan can do to draw the midfield together, press a few words of comfort into Dejan’s skin with a touch as they pass each over. It’s almost not enough.

 

But only almost.

 

The whistle goes and he turns away from the teary-eyed faces in the crowd, relief heavy in his chest. He bends down to pick up a few Roma players, because it’s the right thing to do and because he knows the desolation dragging their limbs.

 

Klopp finds him. Crushes him into a hug that almost takes him off his feet and Jordan presses his face into his jacket, takes a moment to breathe.

 

“Bit tricky there at the end,” Kloppo says, laughing.

 

“Sorry, boss,” Jordan tells him, only to be waved off. He’ll hear about it tomorrow, he’s sure when Kloppo and Željko break apart every wrong run, but for now, he makes a place in his heart to celebrate.

 

Mo rises up in front of him, smile like sunrise, and Jordan watches him with no small amount of wonder, misses Milly’s stocky form pressing insistently into his arms, fitting under his chin.

 

“Not over yet,” Milly says, “not over yet.”

 

He’s right but his grin belays his serious tone so Hendo jokingly lifts him off his feet, ignoring his indignant squawk.

 

It’s not over yet.

 

That’s the beauty of it. 

 

There’s always time for another miracle.

  
  
  



End file.
